With Sights Unseen
by Spark Shark
Summary: Monsters and bodies go bump in the night, and Hotch doesn't know where reality ends and the nightmare begins. Drabble, oneshot tag for 10x21 Mr. Scratch. Graphic.


Hotch can't tell what's real and what isn't- or what he's even seeing, really.

See end for additional notes.

Aaron Hotchner couldn't explain the smell.

It was familiar, like something he had breathed a thousand times before- thick and cloying, yet sharp and pungent. A switch clicked in his brain and he stirred against the desk he leaned on as he made the connection. Blood. That's what it was. He could see it behind his closed eyelids; the browning of the sticky substance as it dried on walls or against cold skin.

He fought through the fogginess of his own mind, struggling towards wakefulness. The smell grew stronger still; it filled his head with a rusty tang that sent his nerves aflame. He managed to open his eyes to narrow slits and the world was a blur of black and blue. It took longer than he'd have liked for his frazzled brain to make sense of what he was looking at.

He blinked blearily and managed to make out the dark spread of furniture, barely illuminated by the thin beams of white moonlight that managed to streak through the barely-parted curtains. He dragged his gaze across the room until it settled upon the figure seated in front of him.

His vision wavered once again and the wraithlike creature before him got to its feet and approached, kneeling at Hotchner's level until their noses nearly touched—the BAU's unit chief reeled back in alarm when he looked up the pointed nose in front of his own to see that the eyes that met his were solid black. They shone, soulless and empty. What was worse was that he could detect no shred of feeling from them. He knew this thing- no, _person. Unsub. Lewis, Peter Lewis- our unsub._

The world spun and the Lewis' features twisted. He grew taller and his limbs contorted. Arms reached toward the clumsily seated agent and his thin wrists were connected to wicked, tapered talons. The darkness grew about him- expanding outward and cloaking the weak light of the moon until it was almost invisible.

Hotch strained his eyes and ears, desperate to keep the creature in his sights—where he could see every move it made— but then everything was black and he heard an impatient, screeching voice.

"Wake up!" A palm met the side of his face and he jumped, staring up with full alertness and realized with relief that his surroundings looked different now. The pale lighting leant enough illumination to make out the hooked features of Peter Lewis, human again, to his heavy, tired eyes.

His newly-revealed unsub smiled at him; thin lips pulled back from crooked teeth in an eerie rendition of a grin. "I think I know what scares you," he called in a sing-song voice. His high-pitched tone had a sharp, grating edge that made the seated agent shiver.

"What—" Hotch tried, his own voice a harsh murmur. He paused, licked his lips, and tried again. "What are-"

"_Shh_," Lewis cut him off with a snarl, waving a hand frantically. "You'll miss everything."

"Miss-?"

Hotchner was interrupted for a second time when a gunshot rang out in the otherwise silent, dark house and he jumped, rattling his shoulders against the hollowed wood of the desk behind him. There came a heavy thud, the sound of shuffling feet and murmured voices, and then, a feminine scream. The agonized voice howled words into the—_empty?_—house.

Hotch's head rang from the volume of the shriek, so much that he missed the words the female voice had attempted to say. _Who is it? Who's screaming?_ He made another attempt to voice his thoughts. "What's happening?"

Lewis grinned again, folding his hands together in front of his chin and looking almost delighted. "It's all for you. Your friends, they're here for you. _Shh_, they'll find you. You'll end the game early. Wait here." He got to his feet and fiddled with his belt as he exited the room.

Hotch stirred once more against the desk in another futile attempt to get his bearings. His ears rang and his head pulsed in time with his rapidly thudding heart, pain driving into his skull like a nail. His limbs felt like numb, useless masses and his breaths were shortening with the realization that he was quite stuck in his position. His thoughts- still muddled by the fog of confusion- fought to piece together the situation.

He could remember very little; not any idea of what 'friends' that man had been talking about. There had been a woman yelling, and a gunshot that had sounded like it had put somebody down. The woman wasn't screaming anymore. He heard nothing more for a few seconds and he tried to slow his breathing, flexing his wrists experimentally to test the range of motion before everything exploded into sound once more. Bullets tore from their chambers in a catastrophe of carnal noise.

It was a clap of thunder inside his head. He hunched forward, palms tearing upward to press against his ears.

"No," he groaned, unsure and yet feeling as though something was terribly, terribly wrong. _I know these people. Not that man, but the others. The woman... woman... JJ. Her name is JJ_. He considered to opening his eyes and hesitated.

Silence.

The gunfire had stopped and it was dead silent. No creaking of floorboards or footsteps, no sound of breathing to indicate life. Despite the complete lack of sound, there was a presence. It was heavy, overbearing, and most definitely just in front of him.

Slowly, cautiously, Hotch opened his eyes. He leaned back against the desk again- all progress for regaining his balance lost- and he went slack. His gaze darted back and forth and his throat ran dry while he struggled to comprehend what he was seeing.

He knew them now. Memories returned, flooding painfully into his battered head.

JJ- a mother, intelligent and strong. A gaping wound bloomed close to the base of her throat, just between her collarbones- past the barrier of her sternum- had spattered blood all down her front. The sanguine fluid ran from her full lips to paint the lower half of her face in an unsettling mask.

Reid watched Hotchner with his usual solemn observation. The other profiler's gaze felt heavy on Hotch, whose own night-black eyes were drawn to the carnage of his younger colleague's head. Visible even through wild tangles of chestnut hair, wet with blood, Reid's most notable quality- his brain- had been blown apart. Blood tricked unnoticed down his face in lazy streams.

To his opposite side stood Morgan and Rossi. The defenders. Hotchner recognized their roles and slowly, the story began puzzling together in his muddled mind. Reid first. Then JJ. She screamed for him. Morgan and Dave hung back until... the gunfight. All the fired shots. _I see it now._

Hotch's gaze lingered on Dave for a moment, struggling to decipher what he was seeing. Dark blood caked the side of his neck and face. Hotch was unnerved and uncertain of what was flashing through his mind- was it Reid's bullet-torn throat he was remembering from the past few months, or Haley's from years before? His breath quickened again and a tightness crept into his chest, making it ache. His ribs were constricting his lungs, lowering their capacity for air and he felt lightheaded.

Morgan had fared no better, his carotid severed by a bullet and a ripped hole in his right temple that signaled two ways in which he could have gone.

They grouped around their seated unit chief, unaffected by his increasing anxiety and confusion. What troubled Hotchner more than anything- more than the gore still trickling over their cooling skin- was the gashes- or maybe they were more like scratches. They were shallow yet still enough to bleed, and the thin tears covered each of his teammate's faces, throats, collars and arms- any inch of skin that was exposed was torn up by the bloodied lines.

Hotch drew as deep a breath he could manage against the sharpening pain in his lungs and he tried to choke out the words again. "What... is this?"

"It's us, Hotch," JJ offered gently, bringing one ice-white hand to the seeping hole in her chest. Pale brows furrowed over filmy blue eyes. "Don't you remember us?"

Hotch's breath shivered. "And what- what happened?"

"We were looking for you," came Morgan's voice, bitter and low. Blood spurted from his ruined neck in time with his words. "We wanted to save you."

"We did our best," Dave added with a shrug. "You didn't make it easy on us, Aaron."

"You..." Hotchner's eyes darted between them all, brows drawn tightly. "But how..."

"I split off first," Reid said, tilting his mutilated head and looking chagrinned. "I didn't have time to clear the hall. I didn't see him behind me. I'm sorry, Hotch." _Why are you apologizing?_

"The cuts," Hotchner said suddenly, pushing himself further upright with his wrists braced on the carpet. "How did you get the cuts?"

"These?" JJ asked, gesturing to her face and neck. "It gave them to us, after we died."

To hear her speak that way pulled another shiver down their superior's spine. "It?"

"Don't you see it?" Morgan asked, hooking a thumb over his shoulder.

Hotch followed his agents' direction and blinked- he could have missed it if he hadn't been told. The darkness was a physical entity resting against the curtains in the back. The wraithlike shadow seemed to sprout up from the floor itself. It was cloaked in rags with no discerning legs. Its shoulders were broad and hooked. He couldn't make out its head, save for the white pits that burned high above their heads in the place of eyes.

"That's enough," a familiar, song-like voice called out, and each dead profile shifted their gazes to look in the doorway. Hotch forced himself to do the same.

Peter Lewis stood in the doorway with his hands clasped together. "He sees it now. He doesn't need you anymore."

And just like that—they dropped. Reid was the first to lose the little life that remained in his eyes and hit the floor- followed by JJ at his side. Dave gave Hotch one more look before he crumpled and Morgan collapsed last, his heaving breaths the last sound he made before he settled; once more, there was silence. Like puppets whose strings had been cut, they were rag-dolls on the floor- with limbs askew and bodies unresponsive without anything to guide them.

Hotch understood it this time. The way they fell, the order in which they died. _For me. Looking for me. They walked into death for me._

It was back again- the sour, rusty stench of blood invading his senses. A more sinister stench accompanied it this time—the scent of rot and decay, of decomposing flesh. Their flesh—_but how, already? It hasn't been... how long has it been? Surely not-_

His thoughts were broken when Lewis chuckled.

"You can see now," the spindly man told him, waggling a finger toward his face. "I had to make you see."

"See?" Hotchner murmured, losing the feeling of the carpet beneath his hands.

"It. You had to see it like everyone else."

Hotch's eyes returned to the curtains, where the creature continued to stand—daunting and unmoving. "Who is it?"

The creature moved forward sluggishly and its limbs separated from the black mass of its body- arms as long as it was tall, outstretched and reaching toward him with wickedly curved talons. It chattered an unholy cackle as it approached with its claws poised to shred his tender flesh as they had done for his dearest friends.

Hotch pressed his back to the desk and closed his eyes slowly, resigned and unresisting. Barely audible above the demon's unearthly chatter, he heard Lewis chortle.

He almost missed it.

_"Mr. Scratch."_

The demonic rattle overwhelmed him, filled his ears and he tossed his head back to crack it against the desk with another strangled, "No—!"

And the fingers that tightly gripped his biceps were firm, but clawless. His eyes shot open, and everything was clear.

He blinked. His pulse slowed, his chest expanded normally and he drank in the air like he had just been birthed from water. He caught himself for a moment before lifting his eyes to the owner of the hands that tightly gripped his arms. His gaze landed on the concerned visage of his most trusted comrade.

"Dave?" he murmured, bringing a hand up to rub at his forehead.

"Aaron," came the careful reply. "Where were you?"

"I was... in a memory," Hotchner replied slowly. "I think. Or maybe a vision. I'm not sure. What- how long have we been...?"

"We just left the house a few minutes ago," Dave said. "Sent you straight over here and then went to make sure Lewis had been shipped off accordingly. I came right back- you were sitting maybe a minute or two on your own."

_Only a minute or two? It was a lifetime._

He couldn't believe all that he'd flashed through in a minute. "What was I seeing?" he asked, under his breath, in a way that told Dave he wasn't seeking an actual answer. The older, grizzled profiler listened intently anyway. "I didn't see... that... just now. I saw it when I was in the house. I had to have. Or else, what did I see while I was there, with him? I don't..."

"Hey," Rossi admonished softly. "Try to relax. We'll talk about this."

Something wasn't right. _But what wasn't right?_ This was how it was supposed to go- he sat in the back of an ambulance for a once-over before they could leave, with Dave in front of him- miraculously clear of blood.

Blood. _There it is._

The smell was gone. The scent of decay and the overwhelming metallic tang of blood that had been present in his nose throughout the entire ordeal was gone.

But that wasn't right, either.

_There is no sense of smell in an illusion. Is there? You can't smell in a dream. Where's the smell now?_

It was real-life now. Real things were really, actually happening. Hotch drew deep breaths, almost desperate for the deathly scent to come back to him.

There was none.

His pulse quickened again and he leaned away from Dave, pressing his face to the palms of his hands. He chanced a glance upward again to reaffirm and saw Rossi continuing to stare at him, concern evident on his face.

The tension failed to let up. Hotchner let his eyes wander over Rossi's shoulder and he caught Reid's attention from where the younger agent stood beside one of the police cruisers. Reid met his gaze and held it, his expression unusually stoic. There was a familiar, empty nothing in his eyes.

Slowly, Reid smiled at Hotch- and just as the older profiler offered the tiniest nod of acknowledgement, Reid raised his hand in one of his characteristic waves.

Hotch's heart froze in his chest, his lungs shrinking up as though they'd been doused in ice water.

Reid's hand, still held up toward him encouragingly, was black with decay, and his fingers were tipped with wicked, wicked claws.

x

A/N: I'm alive &amp; finally back in this fandom. I tried something very experimental here, and I did not really like it so I probably won't be writing this way again. However, it was too wasteful not to post it at all, so here it is. I don't remember if Haley was shot in the neck or chest or what, so just bear with me to make this work. (Wow, I'm the most informed author ever.)

For anyone receiving this update that follows my old stories, they are being rewritten. Ward of Ruin is my first priority. I'm rewriting it now and then will update it. The writing style for that story, and all others, will remain as they are.

Cheers.


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